The fight dragged on.
Long. Stifled. Slow.
Not from lack of rage or rhythm—no. But because, somehow, the essential was no longer being played out here. No longer in brutality, no longer in spectacle. The confrontation had changed in nature, as if both fighters had become nothing more than messengers of an invisible, slow, perverse will weaving its web before our eyes.
Oltrad reappeared here and there, unhurried, not even trying to be unpredictable. He moved like a man who already knew the end of the story and indulged in the unhealthy luxury of rereading its chapters. His strikes were no longer lethal. He aimed at the hip, the shoulder, the thigh. He inflicted wounds without pressing. He drew pain, sculpted wear. A fatigue laid down like a black offering, one drop at a time.
And above all… he never targeted vital zones.
He no longer needed to.
The poison was doing its work. Slowly. Meticulously.
He let time do the rest.
And time, docile, cruel, did just that.
